Luna's Light
by WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot
Summary: Complete. One-shot. When everything else is dark, she finds a way out. What is it that makes Luna Lovegood a light in the darkness? A story about her captivity with Ollivander, her family, and her smile.


**A/N: **Because I cannot leave these characters alone, and because I wanted to explore a different side to Luna . . .

This is a parallel story to _**Luna Lovegood: A Second Thought**_, and it's set during _**Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows**_.

Please let me know what you think in a review. Let me know if I missed anything.

Feel free to check out my other works as well, in particular, _**Daphne Greengrass and the 6th Year From Hell**_.

I own nothing. It's JKR's world. Thanks to respitechristopher for the beta read.

* * *

**Luna's Light**

**1998**

She thinks that darkness is odd.

Darkness is not tangible, and yet it can suffocate.

And she knows fully well what that feels like.

Darkness _almost_ overtakes the Wandmaker several times. He tells her, "Thank you so much, my dear," and she doesn't respond for a few moments because her father calls her "my dear" and she loves that so much.

She says after a few moments, "You're welcome, Mr. Ollivander, but why are you thanking me?"

"Please . . . call me—" and he asks her to call him by his proper first name. But she merely smiles at him in the darkness.

"I'm thanking you because you're talking to me. I feel like you're keeping me _alive_. _You_ are keeping me sane."

And she smiles. She is very happy that he is enjoying her company, and if he likes hearing her stories, she will continue to tell him her stories.

There are only a few times that she _almost_ lets the darkness engulf her.

But then she remembers.

She _always_ remembers those last words and she smiles and the darkness leaves.

For she always talks about the most extraordinary witch she has ever known.

**1985**

"Luna!" She is only four, but she will turn five shortly. She hears the bell-like tones of her mother as she calls from the kitchen.

"Oh, my dear Luna." Her mother laughs and it sounds like song. "What are you doing?"

Luna holds up the picture she has just drawn.

"This is," her mother says and looks down at her, smiling as if she can hardly believe that her own child could have accomplished this. "This is just _beautiful_. This is our family, right?"

She nods and she smiles. She thinks the picture is rather messy, but she is so happy that her mother can see the faces clearly. She is _so_ glad that her mother recognizes her and her father, running around in the picture, chasing each other in the grass in front of a rather crookedly-drawn cylindrical house that resembles a castle tower. She is glad that her mother can see herself in the picture, watching the two of them chase each other around. The image of her mother claps and jumps up and down in utter joy.

In the picture, all the figures are laughing and squealing and shouting in mirth.

Her mother smoothes her head with her soft hands and she revels in her touch.

She hopes that her mother will always be here, to talk to her and love her and admire her work.

Nothing makes her happier.

Her mother lifts her up and pulls her onto her lap. "Luna, you know that I love your father _very _much and that he loves me very much too. Right?"

She nods because she knows this very well.

"I want to tell you why I love him so much." Her mother hums a little and smiles as she kisses her on top of her head.

She sits still in her mother's lap and waits for her to talk.

Even as a young child, she is oddly patient.

"Your father has a _great_ imagination," her mother says after a moment. "He comes up with the most extraordinary things. Creatures, magical beings, _anything_!" Her mother looks just past her head, with a wistful look upon her face.

"There is always truth behind the things he talks about. Your father is so insightful, and people don't always see it because they cannot fathom that the extraordinary things he says and believes in _can_ be real." Her mother's eyes move back toward her and the dreamy smile that she had on her face as she talks to her about her father grows bigger. "But I can see them all, little Luna-Beam. I believe in the things he says and feels and _believes_ in. I believe in these things as much as I love him. _And_ you."

Her mother giggles and squiggles a finger into her tummy and she lets out a laugh that sounds as musical as her mother's.

**1998**

She hums to herself.

"What song is that, my dear?"

She smiles at her companion in the cellar. "It's from my fourth year . . . 'Weasley is Our King'."

"Oh, er . . . as in Arthur and Molly Weasley?"

She shakes her head. "As in the Weasley's son, Ronald."

"Ah. Ash . . . twelve-inch, unicorn tail core . . . and in 1993, willow . . . fourteen-inch . . . _u-_uni-c-corn . . ."

She hears scuffling as Ollivander tries to sit up a bit better. He grunts quite loudly.

"Is everything all right?"

"Oh yes, y-_yes_. Just fine, m'dear," but she notes his out-of-breathiness and a few gasps as if the effort took a great toll on him.

She goes to him and make sure he is all right. It is nighttime and she can barely see, but her eyes are now used to this darkness.

"Were you just describing Ron's wands that you sold to him?"

"Mmm-hmm," Ollivander sounds a bit strained. "I remember all the wands that p-pass through m-my doors."

She brings him a glass of water from the water jug, and he drinks every last drop in their cup, exhaling loudly in relief from his parched state.

"Th-thank you, Luna."

"No problem." She speaks brightly and pats his hand.

She hears a sob, and just as she is about to lift her hand from his, he grabs her and refuses to let her go.

"There is no hope for a rescue is there?" Desperation fills his voice, and her heart fills for sympathy and compassion for him.

"There is hope. I believe that someone will find us."

"But I've been gone for so _long_!" He nearly shouts, and she wants to keep him calm, as she is certain he is weak and should not get himself too excited. "_No one knows where we are_!" She can feel him trembling. "_No one . . ._" His voice trails off, but his hand still shakes in her hand. "No hope . . . Noone . . . No hope . . ."

He keeps saying the words over and over again.

"Hope is something we cannot see, touch or feel, and yet," she moves to sit next to him and puts her arm around him, "I believe in it."

"You _believe_ . . ."

She nods. "It's just like a feeling. It's just like love; you know it exists, but there is no physical form."

"B-but _why_? Why believe? Why even _bother_?!"

"Because I can." She gives him a gentle squeeze around his frail and weakening shoulders. "Because I choose to believe." And she holds him while he cries.

**1989**

"But the Snorkack _doesn't _exist, Father!" She chuckles and she waves around the latest issue of _The Quibbler_.

"My dear! Of _course_ it exists!" He picks her up and twirls her around the room. Her mother claps and laughs and they're so gleeful.

She figures they are very happy because her father has just interviewed a naturalist who has made a very good case for 'the further and continued exploration of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack'.

She loves to tease him about the Snorkack because it riles him up in a very funny way.

But secretly, deep down, she would _love_ to see a Snorkack one day.

"Now why would you say the Snorkack doesn't exist, Luna-Beam?"

She giggles. "Well, I've never seen one."

Her father sets her down. He sits in his favorite chair and he pats his knee.

"Luna," he begins, and peers at her above his pince-nez, "can you see _everything_ that exists?"

She creases her brow. "If I can see it, it certainly _does _exist!"

"Right." He touches her nose and grins. "So you exist, and your mother exists, and _I _exist, correct?"

She nods.

"And you know that we love you, right?" It's her mother's turn now, and she sits next to her father.

She nods even more brightly than before. "Of course, Mother."

Her mother takes hold of her hand and smiles at her.

"How do you know that we love you?"

"Because you tell me so." She laughs because this is very silly, indeed.

"But being told is different than seeing."

She creases her brow in thought. "You also kiss me and hug me—"

"But Luna, those are kisses and hugs. Those are actions."

"Kisses and hugs don't mean you love me?"

Her mother and father giggle. "No, no, little Luna-Beam. We have attached a specific _meaning _to those actions; but, ultimately, aren't they mere physical gestures?"

She thinks for a moment. "So, what you're saying is, is that kissing and hugging really is only just that, a kiss _and_ a hug. We use them to show that we love someone, but they are not _actual _love?" She sits for a bit, and feels confused. "But I do know you love me, and I know I love you. The both of you . . . "

Her mother and father smile and nod at her. "And we love you too, Luna," her mother says. "I not only know this, but I also _feel _it."

"And a feeling is not a physical thing, right?" her father adds.

She looks at them for a few moments. "Right . . . _Right_!" Her face brightens because she begins to understand what her parents are saying. "It exists, regardless if can't see it, because I _believe _it!"

And for something without physical form or body, she feels it fill her heart as her parents embrace her and themselves.

**1998**

She does not _hate_ anything.

But she does _greatly dislike _her captors.

Malfoy's father is as far different from hers as is possible. He is capable of tremendous cruelty.

However, she can tell he _is _afraid, and that is possibly why he is so cruel.

She is pretty sure that he is afraid because You-Know-Who wants him and his family to suffer. It is why he always looks pale and nervous; he is pale and nervous even now, as he throws both her and the old Wandmaker around.

Malfoy's father slams her up against the brick wall of the cellar. She hits her face on a particularly rough brick, and very briefly, she sees stars.

"_No_! Don't hurt her like that!"

She rubs at her face and she holds in her pain as she walks toward the old Wandmaker because she wants to quiet him.

Only talking to them will make them angrier.

"_Silence_!" Malfoy's father speaks, and he smacks the older man hard across his cheek. "You give us nothing? You get_ nothing _from us!" He sneers and points at Ollivander, and, fleetingly, she thinks that he is particularly angry today because she notices a new welt across the younger man's face.

She thinks his master must have gotten quite mad at him for some reason.

The shorter, rotund man with a wheezy voice — the man that they call, "Pettigrew," as if he were a bug on the bottoms of their shoes — steps down into the basement.

"L-Lucius . . ." Pettigrew stutters.

"_You_," Malfoy's father hisses, "you _call – me – SIR_!" And he storms up the steps of the room and slams shut the heavy door, while Pettigrew repeats over and over again, "Yessir . . . yessir . . . yessir . . ."

"Oh, my dear. My dear." Ollivander crawls toward her. "Are you a-all-all right?" He shakes as he talks. She fears that he may have been hurt far worse than she.

"I'm all right, Mr. Ollivander. I've been through worse before." And she smiles at him.

Because simply smiling can somehow make _this_ feel better.

Because simply smiling is something that _they_ cannot take away.

"Oh-hhh," Ollivander says with a trembling voice. "You've been through worse than _this_?"

She nods, but she continues to smile.

Ollivander shakes his head. "You are an extraordinary girl, Luna."

She grins at him. "Why, thank you. How's your face?"

She moves closer to him, and looks to make sure that he is not bleeding. To her relief, his face has not suffered any new cuts, but she can tell the start of a new contusion across his cheek.

And his older ones were just starting to heal.

"I'm sorry he hit you, Mr. Ollivander."

"I would've been far sorrier if he harmed you any further, my dear."

She smiles because she loves hearing those words, "my dear."

"How do you remain so happy in the face of such darkness, Luna?"

Her smile falters only a tiny bit, but it is because she starts to speak. "Simple."

**1990**

"Mother, is this going to be all right?"

"Mmm-_hmm_!" Her mother lets a bit more Peppermint Berry fall into the bubbling cauldron. "It will be just fine, Luna-Beam."

She nods. She is a bit worried, because her mother does love unique and powerful spells and potions and her mother is quite fond of experimenting with rather _tempestuous _ingredients.

And today, her mother is attempting some very complicated magic, involving a combination of a potion _and _a spell, the end result of which might allow the caster to—

Actually, she's really not sure _how _the magic is supposed to work.

She only knows that her mother is happy and cannot _wait_ to show her father this new spell.

"It's finished!" Her mother brushes off her hand away from the cauldron. "Now, Luna, I need you to step back a few paces. I think it will be all right, but I just want to take precautions."

She nods, and she steps to the far corner of the room. The space is large enough that she feels safe and soun—

_**BOOM**_

An explosion fills the air, and she is thrown back against the wall.

She blinks a few times and holds her head, fearing that her eardrums have burst.

As she gets up off the ground, she sees pieces of the cauldron scattered in front of her, and purple potion dripping onto the floor . . . smoking and burning their house.

And she looks for her mother.

And she sees her . . . lying on her back . . . covered in blood.

She runs toward her, her feet avoiding puddles of the volatile liquid that is everywhere.

"Mother?" She drops to her knees besides her. She breathes out in relief that her mother is still breathing.

But she is breathing in heavy and loud gasps.

And that is when she sees a large shard of cauldron jutting from her mother's chest . . . right where her heart is.

"L-Lun-Luna?" her mother whispers. She sounds as if she is choking on air.

"I'm here." She can hear her voice and it is growing shaky and her eyes are growing wet and she's not quite sure why she can't move when she knows she needs to get help—

"L-Luna . . . I'm sc-sc-_cared_." And her mother swallows and gasps for air.

"You shouldn't be. You can try the spell again, Mother."

She thinks her mother laughs a bit, but as she does so, a small trickle of red spills out of her mouth.

"You're hurt. I'll go get someone—" and she makes to get up fast so she can get help from any one of their neighbors. Or Floo-call St. Mungo's. She knows how to use the Floo Network; she can Floo for her father.

But her mother shakes her head furiously. "N-n-no. Just . . ." she takes in a breath. "I d-d-don't th-think they'll get here . . ." she gasps and swallows thickly and more blood comes from her mouth. "They won't get h-here in t-time."

"What?" She asks softly, and her voice is shaking just as she is. "Wh-what do you m-mean 'not in time'?"

She has a hold of her mother's hand, and she can feel her shaking and it is not a good shake.

The hand shakes as if her mother's spirit is trying to leave her body.

"St-stay, Luna. Stay p-pl_-please_. . . h-here . . ."

She knows it would be best for her mother if she could Floo St. Mungo's for Medi-wizards. But her mother asks her to stay. She cannot leave.

"Sm-smile, Luna? C-can y-you . . . s-smile for me, please?"

She smiles for her. She smiles as big as she can for her.

She smiles even though she is crying and her mother is crying and—

"Always _smile_, Luna . . . " she says, her voice falling away. "A-all- . . . _all- _ . . ."

She waits for her to finish.

"_Always_ . . ."

She feels her hand go limp and something passes through her mother's eyes, as if a spark is suddenly put out.

And she is crying. She is crying and sobbing _so_ hard.

She hears herself talk, but her voice is calm and quiet.

"Mother?" She shakes her shoulders a tiny bit.

"M-mother . . ." She speaks even more softly and she gets no response.

She whispers, "Mother," over and over again over her body until her father finds her.

**1998**

"—And I really do think that Zacharias Smith had a bad case of 'Loser's Lurgy'. Which is why he played so horribly that day!"

She talks and watches Ollivander nod and chuckle and smile.

She marvels that he has as much energy to do so. He has been fading for a couple of days now and she is very worried about her fellow prisoner.

"Loser's _Lurgy_? What exactly is that, m'dear?"

She thinks for a minute before speaking. "It's an affliction that strikes athletes in the middle of competitions or events. It's usually characterized by increased sweating, paling of the face, and an over-long streak of playing below the level that he or she is capable of. Also, there tends to be a lot of swearing."

Ollivander gives another chuckle, then shifts his weight and winces.

"It's your leg again, isn't it?" She crawls over to him, ignoring the soreness of her own body.

"Oh, it's . . ." Mr. Ollivander shakes his head. "I'm all right."

"No, Mr. Ollivander, I don't think you are." She takes another quick look at his leg and his face. Ollivander has lost a lot of weight over these past few weeks and if they don't get out of here soon, she's fairly certain that he may lose his leg.

Or he may die from starvation and dehydration. She is very concerned for his health.

She is not exactly sure how much weight he has lost since their captivity or exactly how long they have been down here, but she does hope it hasn't been too long . . . her father will worry so.

"I should try to tighten the splints, Mr. Ollivander. Can you hold on for me?"

He doesn't answer her, but he coughs. He falls into a violent coughing fit, that turns into hacking, and then turns into retching.

After it subsides, he clears his throat. "I-I'm . . . sorry, m'dear."

"It's all right, Mr. Ollivander." She rips off another chunk of her shirt and pours a small amount of water onto it. She feels for Ollivander's feverish and sweaty face, and wipes him down.

"Does that feel better?"

"Mmm-hmm . . ." she hears his shaky voice. He coughs a little bit more, and he breathes out when it doesn't get any worse than that.

She pours out some water from the jug and hands it to him for a drink. It is the same grimy cup that they have shared this entire time in captivity.

He takes the water and gulps it down in a thirsty gasp. "Wh-what about you, m-my dear?" he asks her in a whisper. "You h-have enough t-to drink?"

"I'm fine. You need water and food more than I do—"

"_No_!" He tries to shout, but it comes out as little more than a croak. He coughs. "Y-y-you are still young . . . need to . . ." he splutters a bit and she cannot understand him.

"What is that?" She moves to give him some more water.

"Y-you _must_ take c-care of _yourself_!" he whispers to her, and as she tries to give him the water, he does not move.

"Mr. Oll- . . . Ollivander?" She hears herself stuttering and speaking quietly into the darkness. She tries to get a better look, as her eyes have adjusted to the absence of light.

She can hear his steady, raspy breathing. She sighs in relief; he is only sleeping.

_This_, she is all right with.

She can sit for a long time, and not talk, and just think about things. And as she thinks, she tightens the splints on either side of his leg.

**1992**

The holiday is a week away. She has already made it four months into her first year at Hogwarts.

She _really_ does not have friends.

She understands that she is considered the "quiet girl" in Ravenclaw.

And she is all right with that.

She finds it hard to talk to people here, and it gets steadily worse as Christmas draws nearer.

It will only be the second Christmas _since_ . . . but she thinks she will cry just as hard as she had cried last year, when she'd heard noises in the kitchen and ran downstairs to see — she _had_ to see because maybe her Christmas wish came true.

But it was her father, and _only _her father. He had been trying to bake a fruitcake and had failed miserably.

He was never the one who cooked their Christmas dinner, after all.

And besides the wonderful cooking, she misses hearing holiday songs wafting through the air, hearing _her _lovely, untrained soprano sing along with the music.

It was such a beautiful sound.

Her father, try as he might, sings with an amusing inability to hit _none_ of the notes.

It's pleasant, but it's different.

She misses the other voice so much.

She returns to the present, and she enters her common room from her dormitory. The other students don't seem very interested in what she has to say; any time she does say anything, they either laugh or stare at her in disbelief.

Today, she hears them as she walks through the common room.

"_She's so . . . _odd."

"_Too right! I mean, have you ever heard her say _one_ single word?_"

"_She started talking about something called a _'Nargle' _once . . . said it lived in mistletoe._"

" _. . . the hell's a _'_Nargle'_?"

They do not know that she can hear them talking about her. She would like to talk to them, to explain what a "Nargle" is a bit more, but it is a creature she and her father talk about.

She really doesn't want to hear them insult _it_, because she would feel as though they are insulting him.

She wishes that the others would listen more, rather than laugh at her, for she feels that every time she thinks of "Nargles" or "Snorkacks" and every time that she talks about them, she feels close to her father. She misses him so very much, and she feels like he's with her when she talks about her magical creatures.

And she feels that talking about them and feeling close to her father would make her mother very—

She wipes at her eyes before she can finish the thought, and she steps through the door that opens all on its own.

She walks and she looks about her. The decorations are certainly beautiful, and she can feel something swell inside of her, looking at all the effort that has been put into the ornate holiday cheer.

But there is something missing.

She walks further, and she hears a soft, sobbing noise.

Looking around, she notices a small girl with red hair. The girl is hunched over, her face hidden behind her knees.

The girl's shoulders shake.

The girl is crying.

She walks to her and sits down beside her.

"Can I help?"

The red-haired girl gives a little start. She slowly brings her head up. Their eyes meet.

The girl says nothing.

"I'd like to help if that's possible."

The girl wipes her tear-stained face, which is puffy and red; clearly, she has been crying for a while and has been ignored.

"I- y-you c-can't . . ." and she continues to sob.

"I'd like to try," she says. She smiles despite wanting to cry along with this girl who seems so vulnerable.

There is so much to cry about these days.

The girl sniffs and tries to wrestle control of her tears. "I-I'm b-being . . . there's som-someth-thing I-I . . . c-can't stop . . . c-can't t-tell anyone about it . . . no o-one would care anyw-way . . ." The girl trails off, confused and crying about saying anything more.

She reaches over to the girl and puts her arm around her shoulder. She may not be able to give this stranger the comfort of a motherly embrace, but she can, at the very least, do the best she can.

"Talking can be very hard sometimes. I don't talk much to anyone myself." She speaks to the girl in a light, whispery voice. "I think that someone does care, though."

"M-my brothers d-don't even n-notice—"

"They might not be able to see that your upset now, but that doesn't mean they don't care. They care very much — they're your brothers after all." She is very surprised with how easy it is to talk to someone who is willing to listen. "Families love and care about each other." She turns her eyes down to the floor a bit, just in case she tears up. "Families are always together, even if not in this world, then certainly the next."

She looks back up and gives the red-haired girl a small smile. She is sure that, this time, she will not cry.

"I miss my mum."

"I miss mine," she says.

"Will you get to see her over the holiday?"

She pauses for a few seconds, merely to strengthen her resolve to not cry. "She died almost two years ago."

The girl pales. "_Oh_! I'm . . . I'm sorry—"

She shakes her head. "It's all right. I do get sad still, but . . ." and she thinks about it a bit and she realizes that it's true. "It takes time, but little by little, I feel less sad. I think there will come a time, when I'll feel more happy about my mother, and I'll remember all the good things about her, but it _does_ take time."

The girl nods and sniffs a bit; she gets a little composure back. "I-I'm Ginny Weasley."

"I'm Luna Lovegood. I'm glad I met you."

Ginny nods. "Same here." Ginny says this very quietly to her.

"You should try smiling."

Ginny lowers her head just a bit. "I don't really feel like it right now." Her lip begins to tremble a bit.

She feels her own smile grow bigger. "I – I learned it from my mother. Even when everything seems to be falling apart, I'll smile and then I'm able to go on. It really works."

Ginny looks at her.

"Go ahead." She speaks very calmly, hoping that Ginny will not cry again.

Ginny gives her a small smile.

It is enough.

"See? Smile. Every time you smile, just believe you aren't alone. You've got others that care about you."

And as she stands up with Ginny, she pats the other girl on the back and watches her start to walk off.

Ginny turns back to face her. "You're right. I do feel a bit better."

She nods happily, and she hears a voice as it floats into her mind.

It is light and musical and it is so warm and comforting.

_Luna . . . __I'm still here. I am with you. Always. . . ._

And she tells this girl the four words that she will carry in her heart forever.

"Always smile, Ginny. Always."


End file.
